


Observe The Flow Of The World

by Kemmasandi



Series: Uncharted [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: AU- Uncharted, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet runs from a storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observe The Flow Of The World

**Author's Note:**

> >> _"Imagine your OTP being the last two left on the planet after the apocalypse. Imagine them trying to survive and find shelter together."_  
>  \---imagineyourOTP

***

The storm caught Ratchet out in the open, on the blasted field that was all that was left of Kalis’ eastern boundary. He’d been keeping a wary optic on the weather all day, hoping and half-praying that the ugly bruised hues in the gathering clouds didn’t mean rain.

He must have gone soft over the vorns he’d spent offworld, because he thought he’d given himself plenty of time to work his way across the open ground. But Cybertron’s storms demanded an entirely different magnitude of respect from a mech than did the storms of Earth, and when crossed, their punishment was fierce.

The wind kicked up all at once, a steady gale rising out of nowhere. In less than a breem he was having trouble walking, several hundred pounds’ worth of sideways pressure battering at his shoulders. Dust swirled around him, small bits of ruined civilization skittering past on the wind. Ratchet subspaced his orn’s scavenged parts, grimacing as his aged – ancient, really – subspace generator gave a temperamental pulse of radiation, frying several microcircuits in his wrist. He wouldn’t be using it at all if he had the choice – but such were the joys of being marooned on a dead planet!

As was acid rain. He threw himself into alt-mode and barrelled off over the buckled slope, heading for the distant slump of Kalis’ old urban sprawl. Behind him, green and purple swirled together in the sky, the distant light of the blue supergiant that was currently Cybertron’s closest stellar neighbour glinting off iridescent hues in the chemical-laden clouds.

They’d started the job of killing Cybertron long before the war had ever taken off, hadn’t they? Ratchet had come online with the dangers of acid rain programmed straight into his memory banks, and he was older than anyone he knew for sure was left.

It hurt if he left himself think about it, so he wiped the thought from his queues and concentrated on blind panic. That at least would get him into Kalis’ environs, to safety.

He came in over the boundary marker pushing three hundred kilometres an hour. The first drops of acid came streaking down around him. They burned, carving rayed streaks through paint and living metal alike. He didn’t dare slow down until the moment he made it in under cover, braking until his tires screamed and momentum flung him into the air. Transforming, he rolled as he’d been taught once upon a time – once, and ran out of space. His body slammed into the back wall with enough force to blank out his optical feed and send him into a forced shutdown.

He rebooted underneath the fallen bulk of a skyscraper, broken windows staring down at him from empty sockets, distant rain pattering down out in the ruined street. It was peaceful – deceptively so.

Ratchet moved on automatic, bringing a hand up to his optics – and bit back a whine of sluggish misery. Red and orange filled his HUD, damage reports sharp and aching, pain akin to scraplet bites eating into his protoform. His outer armor was largely numb – which was the only slagging saving grace of the orn, given the deep scores that covered every inch. Underneath, though, he felt like a bundled mass of faults, seething discomfort – he was loath to call it pain, he’d seen real pain and this didn’t even come close – forcing him into a desperate huddle, palms flat on the corroded floor and knees drawn up to his chest.

His subspace pocket was heating up already. He must have been out of it for quite a while.

A groan bubbled out from the depths of his chassis, more his engine than vocalizer. He opened the glitching subspace generator again, feeling for his orn’s scavengings. They came in an avalanche of metal and rust, pouring onto the floor in front of him: wire, simple circuits, parts which he could repurpose to patch his sorry carcass up so that he might last another few vorns, or however long it took until their mayday signals reached someone.

His self-repair systems pinged him with a status report. Reboot systems had found nothing wrong with his processor bar the usual microstresses from overwork and underfueling. His nanites were getting on with the physical damage. He had a cracked shoulder socket, several fractures in armor and struts all across his upper back and down the right arm, dents everywhere. He experimentally flexed his arms, and all right, there were strained cable mountings all down his right side. It hurt to lift his elbow much above fifteen degrees from his side.

His ventilation fans whirred sickly, his mostly-empty fuel tank lurching in concert. Ratchet fixed his gaze on the gaping holes in his makeshift ceiling and stared with furious intent. Exventing too hard made it feel as though he was about to purge, and that he knew he couldn’t afford.

His comm system crackled to life. Ratchet startled, moving to push himself upright, but his shoulder flashed white-hot pain at him and sent his upper body crashing to the floor. He hissed a soft curse at himself—he wasn’t used to being the injured one.

« _Ratchet. Location?_ »

Optimus’ voice, usually so soothing, hurt something in his audials. Ratchet winced and dialed them down. « _Kalis, Sector 5349-12-2._ » Location first, so that if the connection was ever blocked they’d know where each other was. « _Underneath the snapped-off skyscraper. You can’t miss it._ »

« _Kalis regional environs, Sector 67-45-9. I see a storm over the city. You are under adequate cover?_ »

« _Yes. I am injured, though—not badly, just a little cracked and dented._ » His fuel tanks were settling, slowly. Ratchet vented a sigh, heat gusting from his internals. He’d pushed himself a little too far for his age, and now he was paying the price.

« _Stay there, then. I will bring you some energon._ »

« _You found another vein?_ »

« _Several, in fact. I am beginning to suspect that Cybertron is not beyond help after all._ »

Ratchet could all but hear the smile in Optimus’ voice. It was infectious; despite the ache eating away at his entire body he smiled as well. He suspected his motivation was not so selfless as Optimus’—at least they wouldn’t starve now. Under different circumstances he might have felt guilty about it, but the pressure of survival had a tendency of wiping away such immaterial concerns. And Ratchet had always been practical.

« _Thank you,_ » he said, because he knew he didn’t say it enough. Optimus would know what he really meant.

« _It is no problem,_ » the Prime replied, somewhat awkwardly. Ratchet could picture him – a little smile on his lips, a modest duck of his head. Sometimes knowing what was really meant made it hard to find an adequate reply.

The transmission ended. Ratchet eased himself into a more comfortable position, face down on the floor, left arm tucked up against the crown of his helm. Waiting, he could do.

***


End file.
